


when the flies fall

by neptuneslight



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Peter Parker, More tags to be added, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Presumed Dead, Recovery, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Torture, and i crush it to pieces, warnings in notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24437113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neptuneslight/pseuds/neptuneslight
Summary: “Peter-”He shoved her towards the door. “Go! Now!” he hissed, looking over his shoulder. They still had time. “When you get in there, move as far away from the door as possible. Don’t move. Don’tbreathe.”Her bottom lip trembled. “Be safe,” she whispered.It sounded like a death sentence.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 10
Kudos: 94





	when the flies fall

**Author's Note:**

> we’re in that little universe where canon doesn’t exist, so this is post ffh with tony still alive (carol snapped) and peter’s identity still a secret!
> 
> thanks to Grace_d for acting as my well of medical knowledge! and also thanks to notapartytrick and iamalloyman for being wonderful betas
> 
>  **warning:** there’s a section in this story that deals with an active shooter situation at a school. the end notes will go a little more in depth to the extent of which it’s portrayed, but if reading this will cause you any harm please click off!

**FEBRUARY 7**

**07:56 AM**

“Hey FRI?” Peter called around the toothbrush in his mouth, rifling through his closet for the fourth time. “Can you ask Tony if he saw my hoodie? The maroon one?”

There was a pause as Peter walked hurriedly back to the bathroom, doing his best to ignore his racing heart. He slept like absolute shit last night, and consequently didn’t wake up to his seven o’clock alarm. (His backup went off fifty minutes later, sending him shooting out of bed like a rocket.) 

On top of that, today— today marked two years since Ben died. Peter spat his toothpaste out aggressively, the pang in his heart echoing throughout his entire body. 

He was lacing his belt through his jeans when FRIDAY answered, “Boss said he put it in the wash earlier this morning, and that it won’t be dry in time for school.”

He froze, his hands clenching around the metal belt buckle. “He what?” Peter whispered, feeling his stomach drop to his feet.

“He put it in the wash,” FRIDAY repeated.

Peter swallowed harshly, then walked robotically to the closet. He grabbed a black hoodie off the floor and pulled it on as he exited his room.

He must’ve blacked out, because it seemed like he blinked and he was standing in the communal area, feet just over the threshold of the living room with Tony whistling in the kitchen. His jaw was clenched so tight his gums ached. 

“Hey bud,” Tony greeted cheerfully. “I know you’re running a bit late but there’s eggs on the stove and a plate beside it. Help yourself, then we can hit the road.”

Peter ignored him, clenching his hands into fists inside his pocket. “You washed my hoodie?” he asked, voice low. 

Tony finally looked at him, the slight smile on his face melting into visible worry and concern as he scanned over Peter. “Yeah,” he answered, his words coated in confusion, “I did. You left it on the couch last night and it looked pretty grungy. So I, being the stellar homeowner and pseudo parent I am, washed it for you.”

Peter bit the inside of his cheek, fighting the urge to completely lose it. He walked over to the island and propped his elbows up on the counter, clasping his hands together to keep them from shaking. Tony slowly put down the plastic spatula he’d been holding, like he was trying not to spook a wild animal.

“Why-” Peter’s voice cracked. He paused, took a deep breath, and attempted to rein in his emotions, but a hint of cold anger slipped through when he tried again. “Why did you-. You didn’t ask.”

Tony made his way around the counter so he was face to face with Peter, holding his hands up defensively. “Kid, you need to calm down. It’s just a-”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s _just a hoodie,_ Tony, you can’t just mess with my stuff like that!” Peter snapped, breathing hard. 

Any confusion in Tony’s eyes dropped away. He was _angry_ now. “If you don’t want me to touch your things, maybe you should put them away. Maybe in, I don’t know, your _room_? The one that you’ve been staying in the past couple of days?” He crossed his arms across his chest, all but glaring at Peter.

Peter stayed silent, biting into his bottom lip. His hands were shaking, but he couldn’t tell if it was from frustration or anxiety. At this point, he didn’t know which he preferred. Tony took a step closer to him, and Peter forced himself to not back away, instead digging his nails into his palms so hard he thought his fingers would break. 

“What’s so special about the thing anyways?” Tony spat. 

A switch flipped in Peter’s brain and he felt his entire body shut down. Lead weights fell all the way to his feet, paralyzing him. His limbs weighed too much to move and the thought of talking seemed draining. His hands fisted the fabric of his hoodie, scrunching the fabric into balls. “Nothing,” he said tiredly.

A long, thick silence stretched between the two. Horrifyingly enough, tears began welling up in Peter’s eyes, blurring Tony into splotches of tan and black. Scrubbing at his eyes, Peter turned away from him and scooped his backpack up. “I’ll figure out my own way to school, don’t worry about it.”

Peter stormed towards the elevator, hyperaware of Tony’s angry glare burning into his back. His shoulders pulled up to his neck as he jabbed at the button and stayed that way until the doors slid open. He slipped through the opening as soon as it was wide enough and immediately hid behind the narrow wall the elevator provided. 

The chrome walls shut easily behind him, closing with a soft ping. He closed his eyes tight and blew out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Peter’s legs buckled and he slumped against the side of the elevator, propping his arms up on his knees. His fingers were trembling against his kneecaps, and one eye cracked open halfway. His hands were still shaking, and he flexed them experimentally to see if that would help in any way. It didn’t. God, this day couldn’t be going any worse, could it?

“Where to, Peter?” FRIDAY’s calm voice jolted him out of his stupor.

“Uh,” Peter wiped a hand down his face, ignoring the nausea making itself known in his stomach. “I haven’t really gotten that far,” he laughed breathily.

“It’s okay, Peter. We can wait,” she reassured, endlessly patient.

“We really can’t though,” he sighed. “I’m already gonna be late for first period. And I really can’t afford to miss any more of English than I already do.”

“Maybe you should just take the day off completely,” she suggested, her words incredibly gentle. “After all, it is the day that your uncle-”

“Stop.” Peter’s voice came out strangled and he curled into himself. “Please.” 

There was a beat of silence, with only his ragged breath filling in the space.

“I’m sorry,” FRI said. 

Peter picked his head up slowly, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “It's okay,” he said softly. “Just, uh. I think the helipad is the best option right now. It’s the fastest, at least.”

FRIDAY obliged immediately, and the elevator began its ten-floor descent. Peter stripped right there in the elevator, yanking his suit on and shoving his clothes in his backpack.

Peter had just slapped the spider emblem on his chest when the doors opened to the floor dedicated to the helipad. He thanked FRIDAY quietly and stepped out into the glass-walled enclosure that opened onto the helipad. The sun shone through the panes, flicking over his arms lightly and casting gentle shadows over his feet. High forties—out of the ordinary for February. Barely a cloud in the sky. A perfect day for the beach, Ben would’ve said.

Swallowing his hurt and pulling his mask over his head, he blinked away the sting in his eyes. 

Peter jogged into the warm, open space of the helipad. He turned over his shoulder to fire a test shot at the glass and a blob of webs smacked into it, leaving a satisfyingly large mark.

Any notion of hesitation was nowhere to be found as he reached the edge of the helipad. Peter sped into a run, vaulting over the low, sturdy railing and launching himself off the pad. 

Adrenaline rushed through his blood as the wind grabbed at his body, howling in his ears. He closed his eyes against the intense morning light and spread his limbs like a skydiver, losing himself in the fall. He was breathless. Weightless. 

Peter allowed himself to freefall for longer than he probably should’ve. His eyes flew open as his spider sense buzzed to life, and Peter discovered he was closer to the ground than he thought. He shot a web and snapped himself up just a few feet above the top of the lamp posts, but didn’t manage to avoid grazing the fabric of a hotdog flag sticking out the top of a vender. 

The time at the bottom of his HUD screen read 8:12 AM, and Peter let out a quiet, _“Shit,”_ as he realized the first period bell rang twelve minutes ago. He sped up, cutting corners so close he could feel the bricks brush past him. 

Thankfully, the morning rush ensured that no one was looking up, so no one noticed a teenager flinging himself through the sky. He craved a few minutes of peace, and the repetitive motions of web swinging usually gave him some. 

He nearly fell out of the sky when he passed by the donut shop Ben would take him to when his report cards came back with all A’s. Familiar pangs of longing and grief washed through him, nearly overwhelming him as he pressed his lips closed against the sob. 

He didn’t have Ben anymore. And as if the universe was rubbing its cosmic salt in the wound, today of all days, he didn’t even have Ben’s favorite hoodie. 

Peter was overreacting. He _knew_ he was. It wasn’t like the sweatshirt was ruined. But that stupid, red, thinned out, hoodie was Ben’s _favorite._ It basically _was_ Ben. He’d wear it on Christmas, to parent-teacher conferences, when he was coming to and from work, to Peter’s birthday parties. There was even a picture hung on their mantle, capturing Ben as he accepted his high school diploma, a maroon hood sticking out the back of his graduation gown. 

When Ben died, Peter adopted it. He wore it to school for three months straight. He slept with it over him like a blanket. He still wore it every time he had a bad day. May knew it, Ned knew it, MJ knew it, even Happy had picked up on it. It was just. His thing. _Ben’s_ thing. 

Peter hadn’t washed it since The Day. He couldn’t. Because when he held it to his nose, he swore he could still smell Ben on it, woven into the cotton, a part of the fabric. 

It wasn’t really Tony’s fault. It’s not like he could’ve known. He just didn’t… he didn’t know the extent of what it meant to Peter.

With a jolt, Peter realized he passed his school by about fifty feet. With a quick course correction, he dropped into the nearest alleyway and set a new personal record on how fast he could change his clothes. He sighed a little when he saw just how wrinkled everything was.

Mrs. Skinner caught him slipping into the classroom at 8:29, and narrowed her eyes before saying, “Hello, Peter. Nice of you to finally join us.”

He flushed lightly as some of his classmates turned to look at him and shuffled to his seat. Luckily, said seat was in the back of the class, and he didn’t have to do his walk of shame in front of everyone. 

MJ gave him a strange look when he finally sat down, one that he shrugged off as he pulled out his notebook. He hasn’t read any of the assigned chapters for The Scarlet Letter, so he needed all the notes from this discussion he could get. Maybe Mrs. Skinner would be feeling generous and allow the upcoming quiz to be open notes. 

The bell rang as soon as they moved onto Chapter Eleven, and Peter muffled a groan. He was barely hanging on to a passing grade in this class, and the quiz tomorrow was gonna sink him. He made a mental note to Sparknotes _everything_ tonight.

A hand stopped him almost as soon as he walked out of the class, and he looked up from his shoes to see MJ staring at him, silent. She grabbed his arm and silently relocated them so they were standing against the wall of the hallway, out of the way of the crowd.

“Here,” she said and handed him a copy of the notes he missed. “We can stay at the library after school today if you want. Talk about the book some.”

He stared at the papers in his hand, stunned. A smile broke out over his face, and he grabbed her hand, lacing his fingers through hers and squeezing gratefully. “Wait, after school? Is there no AcaDec today?”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no malice in the gesture. “I sent the text this morning, but I think it's safe to assume you didn’t see it.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but almost immediately snapped it shut again. He grinned, small and sheepish, and he rubbed at his neck. “Sorry, Em.”

The corners of her lips cropped up. “It’s okay, dork,” she said fondly. “It’s not that big of a deal.” She stilled for a second, scanning over him, before she wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. “Everything okay?” 

He squeezed his eyes closed against the tears, overwhelmed at the mix between the grief and the warmness from her sudden sincerity. “Yeah. Don't know what I'd do without you, honestly,” he murmured quietly into her shoulder.

“Perish,” she said lightly.

Peter snorted and pulled away, looking her directly in the eyes as he said “Thanks, Em. For everything.”

MJ smiled awkwardly at the genuine words and raised herself on her toes, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Now go,” she pushed him in the direction of his locker, “or you’ll be late for the second class in a row.”

He obediently walked away, wiping at his eyes. God. Too much. Too many emotions. Too early in the morning.

Peter switched his things out for what he needed for Physics and hurried to the room, making it a solid minute before the bell rang. Mr. Woody wasn’t even in the class yet; but that wasn’t much of a consolation, considering he was more consistently late than Peter.

Ned pivoted as soon as he heard Peter’s approaching footsteps, and the amount of concern in his eyes made him want to cry. 

“How’re you doing, man?” he asked as Peter sat down at the lab table, kicking his backpack under his seat. 

“I’m doing fine,” he grunted as he pulled his pen from the side pocket. “Just had a late start to the morning.”

Ned laughed, but the sound was rough. Forced. “Um,” he started hesitantly. “Peter, where’s... where’s Ben’s hoodie?”

Peter sighed, and looked at Ned. Apprehension was written all over his face. 

“Yeah. Uh, Tony-” his voice was tight and shaky, and he shook his head at himself. “Tony, uh, washed it.”

Understanding shone through his eyes. He set a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Man. I'm so sorry, Pete.”

”It’s fine.” He tried for a reassuring smile. “I’m just glad I made it here _relatively_ on time. I missed half of English, and I don’t know if I would’ve survived missing all of it.”

Ned winced, taking on a playful tone. “Okay, that sucks. Do you have enough notes to study for the quiz tomorrow? Abe thinks Skinner’s gonna crack and let it be open notes.”

Peter nodded, thinking about the papers in his locker. “MJ’s a godsend. She copied everything I missed and gave it to me after class.”

An exaggerated look of disgust screwed Ned’s face up. “Oh, yeah, I’m sure that’s all she gave you. _So_ glad I missed that.”

A short, genuine laugh caught him by surprise. “You’re ridiculous,” he snorted. 

He put his hands up placatingly, a large grin on his face. “Hey, it’s not my fault you two have become _insufferable_ after Europe.”

Peter rolled his eyes good naturedly, ready to comment on the Betty Brant Situation, but Mr. Woody walked through the door at that exact moment, silencing everyone with a loud clap. 

Without Ned talking to him, Peter fell back into the headspace he’d been in all morning and drifted through physics. He didn’t even bother pretending like he was paying attention, eventually laying his head on his folded arms and closing his eyes. Thankfully Mr. Woody didn't call him out on it, seemingly granting him a pass for the day. 

The class had maybe ten minutes left when Peter’s spider sense screeched to life, filling his head with high pitched ringing. 

As the red alert sounded through his body, he shot up, back ramrod straight. _Danger,_ his head shouted, _Danger!_ His eyes darted around the classroom as every hair on his body rose, and his fingers gripped the edge of the table so hard the plaster began to crack. 

“Peter?” Ned asked instantly, forehead creased in worry. “What’s wrong?”

 _Everything,_ his spider sense screamed at him. 

“I don’t know,” he whispered shakily. “I…”

Every fucking nerve in his body electrified as sharp bangs split the silence of the hallways.

Mr. Woody stopped talking halfway through his word, and the hand holding the expo marker dropped, scratching a thick black line through his words. Ned was frozen completely beside him, and the pen clutched in his fingers was rattling.

“Peter, what…” Ned began, breathing too fast, “what was that?”

The classroom was silent. Peter strained his ears, searching for a sound, any sound. The entire school seemed like it was holding its breath.

“I don’t-” 

_Bang Bang. Bang. Bang._

The girl at the table in front of them gasped softly, and a couple kids whimpered. From across the room, Peter heard Flash mutter, “What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck,” on repeat. 

“Attention student and faculty of Midtown Tech,” the intercom crackled. Peter jolted in his seat, and Ned’s hand flew to his shoulder. “We’re now entering lockdown procedures. I repeat, we are now entering lockdown procedures.”

That was enough to snap Mr. Woody back into action, and he instantly moved away from the whiteboard, his body pale and taut. “Okay, everyone,” he said quickly, forcefully, “Front row, get the blinds. Amy, turn the lights off.” 

No one moved. No one even fucking _breathed._

Then the classroom exploded into motion, accompanied by a gruesome soundtrack of terrified crying and frantic breaths. Amy stayed frozen at her table, and Ned wrenched himself out of his seat to pull her away. 

Everyone crawled to the outside wall of the classroom, pushing themselves under lab tables and behind storage shelves. Peter stalled in the middle of the classroom, crouched down low between the two rows of lab tables. Shit. What was he supposed to _do?_ His spider sense pounded in his skull and _oh my God this wasn’t happening this couldn’t be happening._

No. 

Calm the fuck down, Peter. This is your home turf. Not Spider-Man’s. Peter Parker’s. Calm the fuck down and do what needs to be done. 

Which was prioritizing his classmates’ safety. 

“Peter,” Mr. Woody whispered sharply, and he whipped around to look at his teacher, wide eyed. “I need help blocking off the doors. Flash, you too.”

“Yessir,” he whispered back. The absence of any more gunshots was panicking, hanging over his head like a guillotine. If he listened hard enough, he could hear the padded footsteps echoing in the hallway of the floor below them. 

Flash emerged from his hiding spot at the front of the classroom and met Peter in the center of the aisle. He and Flash exchanged a look, and the fear written over his classmate’s face made his stomach plummet. Peter tried for a reassuring expression, but he was sure it came off as a grimace. 

For probably the first time since their high school career began, Peter and Flash worked in complete unison. Wordlessly, Peter pointed at the door closest to the whiteboard, where Mr. Woody was already pushing a table up against them. Flash nodded in understanding and moved as fast as he could while staying low. 

Peter did the same, bracing a shoulder under one of the tables and lifting it effortlessly. He hurried to the back door and wedged it securely under the handles, and took a deep, calming breath.

The intercom crackled to life again. Everyone froze. Peter hoped this was finally over, even though his spider sense had yet to quiet.

 _“Peter Parker,”_ a voice singsonged. He let out a sharp breath. No. No no no. This wasn’t- 

_“Parker,”_ the voice repeated. _“We just want you. Come out and no one will get hurt.”_

This wasn’t happening because of him. It _couldn’t._

Everyone’s eyes burned into his back. He stayed frozen in front of the back door, numb. His hands shook against the plastic top of the table.

 _“You know what to do.”_ The intercom disconnected. 

_Bangbangbangbang._

He flinched back violently at the gunshots that erupted out of nowhere. A girl behind him yelped. From the sound of it, whoever these people, these _monsters_ were, they were getting close to the stairwell leading to Peter’s floor.

Peter’s eyes closed. He steeled himself. 

He wasn’t going to let these people kill his classmates. His _friends._

His hand slipped to the Stark watch on his wrist, silently thanking Tony for his absurd Christmas gift. _Please come,_ he begged silently. Peter spared a glance at his backpack that held his suit, shoved across the room amid the panic, before violently shaking his head. He couldn’t. He didn’t have any _time_.

He yanked the table away from the door and ran a trembling hand over the web shooter on his left hand. At least he wasn’t going in defenseless. 

Taking a deep breath, he unlocked the door. 

“What are you doing, Peter?” Ned asked at the same time Flash hissed, “What the _fuck,_ Parker!”

“I’m not letting anyone get hurt because of me,” he bit back, teeth gritting so hard he thought they would break. _Anyone else._

“Peter!” Mr. Woody cried out. “Don’t even _think_ about it!”

“It’s okay. I promise everything’ll be okay.” He ignored Ned’s tears, the way Flash was staring at him. “Just- put the tables back after I’m out, okay? And don’t let _anyone_ come in. _Anyone.”_

At that, Peter slipped out into the hallway, unprotected, alone, and terrified. 

And ran headfirst into MJ. 

“Oh my God, Em, what are you doing?” he hissed and reflexively grabbed her shoulders, the fear thrumming through his veins more intense than anything he’d ever felt before.

“I-I heard the announcement,” she stuttered. “I had to make sure you werent gonna do anything stupid.”

She stepped back and looked at him like she was just now realizing why he was out of his class. “And it looks like youre about to do something stupid.” A cramped, terrified expression crossed her face. “Peter. Please tell me you're not considering giving yourself up.”

He took a look at the dried tear tracks down her cheeks, and etched her face onto the back of his eyelids. “I have to, Em,” he said desperately. “You heard them.”

He stilled, chills running down his spine as he heard the four sets of footsteps climbing up the staircase to their floor. ”MJ, you have to hide, we don't have much time. I’m gonna lead them away from everyone but I need you safe.” 

“Please think about this,” she begged. 

Peter just shook his head. “Do you have anywhere to go?”

“No, I was in the bathroom when the alarm went off. I don’t-”

The stairwell door banged open. There was now only a couple feet separating them and the shooters. His heart jumped in his throat, breaking through his ribs and tearing through his ligaments. 

“Get to the janitor's closet _now,”_ he whispered urgently, his blood roaring in his ears. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t happening. 

“Peter-”

He shoved her towards the door. “Go! Now!” he hissed, looking over his shoulder. They still had time. “When you get in there, move as far away from the door as possible. Don’t move. Don’t _breathe._ I don’t know who these people are, okay?” 

Her bottom lip trembled. “Be safe,” she whispered. 

It sounded like a death sentence. 

He nodded.

The footsteps rounded the corner as soon as MJ closed the door behind herself, the lock clicking into place. 

Peter took a deep breath--and bolted. 

The thud of his shoes against the floor echoed down the long hall as he tore away from the double doors, away from the janitor’s closet. Away from his friends. 

“Parker,” a voice intoned loudly as he ran. He forced away the urge to look over his shoulder, needing to focus on getting these people as far away from students as possible. 

The chem labs. They were never used in the morning. 

He reached the T-shaped split in the hall and skidded to the left, sparing a glance out the window at the intersection to see the flashing lights of police cruisers. Good. Help. 

A bullet whistled past his ear. Peter ducked instinctively, exhaling sharply as glass rained down on him. Just a little further. 

He skirted around the corner and his eye caught on a flash of red. He crouched and wedged the fire extinguisher off its mount. Peter waited a moment for his hearing to zero in, then hurled the extinguisher at the men. There was a banged of metal on metal with a sharp clang and a grunt. “Stop. Running!” someone screamed.

Peter stumbled slightly when he reached the chem lab at the end of the hall, heart in his throat as he fumbled with the door. His spider sense blared and he dropped to the floor. Two bullets burst through the door where his torso had been not even a second earlier. 

He yanked the door open frantically, the hinges creaking under the pressure, and threw himself into the chem lab. After a quick glance around the room to make absolutely sure it was empty, some of the bone crushing fear lifted. It was just his life on the line now. 

Five seconds later, the doors slammed open again, and two large men with their faces covered and armed to the teeth burst in. If Peter didn’t know better, he would’ve assumed they were SWAT. His heart skipped a beat. His hands shot up in surrender. The two silently leveled their assault rifles at him; Peter silently prepared himself for the worst.

Before anything could happen, two more guys entered, each dressed the same as the ones aiming at him. The only difference was one had no facial covering, no protective covering, exposing a tan face and a sharp profile. It felt… familiar.

The familiar face turned towards him. Dark eyes and prominent nose pulled into a sneer, the features framed by a greying black beard and hair tied in a knot. 

His stomach dropped. “Dmitri?” he whispered in shock.

“Surprise,” the man taunted, a Russian accent tinting his words. It was the same voice as the one on the intercom, the same one that chased him to the lab. 

He hasn’t seen Dmitri since Europe. Since Beck almost destroyed his life. His hands sank, confusion filling him. “What are you…” 

No. No no no. Not him, too.

“What, you really think Quentin would infiltrate a military organization without someone by his side?” he said condescendingly, like he read Peter’s mind. 

“Why,” Peter croaked. “Why did you come here?” _Why put countless innocent lives at risk, why traumatize children, why threaten the lives of my peers? Why not just come for_ me?

 _Leverage,_ something hissed at him.

Dmitri caressed the gun in his hands, nonchalantly pointing it at Peter’s head before turning it away, polishing the muzzle. “After you killed Quentin, I was alone. My cover—gone. Fury came back, and now all of fucking SHIELD is after me. I’m simply avenging a friend’s death. ”

“I didn’t kill-” His breath rushed out of his lungs and he froze completely when three lazers honed in on his chest. His spider sense went absolutely haywire. “I never wanted anyone to get hurt,” he breathed.

Dmitri cocked his head thoughtfully. “Exactly. You don’t want anyone to get hurt. So that’s why you’re gonna let us do what we want with you—no fights.” He swung his gun in a sweeping gesture. “Otherwise, I’ll go back for your cute little girlfriend and _personally_ paint the walls of this place with her brain.”

Peter inhaled sharply and paled, unable to wipe the terror off his face. His heart hammered against his ribs. 

Dmitri stepped forward slowly and leaned into his face, and Peter resisted the urge to back away. He shoved the point of his rifle into Peter’s chest, an animalistic smile marring his features. “So you’re not going to fucking move. Got it?”

His jaw clenched angrily, and Peter bit the inside of his cheek.

Dmitri’s face twisted, and before Peter knew it, a foot came slamming into his chest. Pain blossomed from his back and he was staring up at the ceiling of the chem lab, blinking hard as his lungs strained to pull in air. “I said not to fucking move!” Dmitri screamed hysterically.

Peter wheezed, unable to move.

Above him, Dmitri turned to one of the other men and muttered, “Blow it.” 

The sky shook, and Peter curled into a ball, protectively wrapping his arms over his head. Red burst across the back of his eyelids, blinding him with his eyes closed. 

Hot. Ow. Why was he so _hot?_

Peter’s eyes peeled open to find a burning fire surrounding him. No. No. _What did you do,_ he tried to ask, but all that came out of him was a rasping groan. 

Constellations splintered through his vision and harsh coughs wracked his body. The smoke was suffocating. 

There was a harsh yank on his arm and someone enveloped his wrist in a crushing grip. A sharp pinch pierced the inside of his elbow and fire bled into his veins. His vision doubled and a fierce groan escaped from him. 

The room began to spin. His head felt like it was splitting in half and something was crushing his chest. He clawed at his throat with shaking hands, choking, panicking, as his world went grey. 

His last thought was, _I hope everyone else is okay._

**Author's Note:**

>  **a bit more in depth on the active shooter section:**  
>  while no students are shot or harmed, there are shots fired in the school and the situation follows what would possibly happen in a lockdown situation of this kind. lives are threatened.
> 
> take a minute and sign this: https://petitions.whitehouse.gov/petition/justice-george-floyd-0
> 
> thank you for reading!


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